


And They Say That Chivalry is Dead

by beaubete



Series: Chivalry/Envy [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mild Daddy Kink, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q's at a conference to headhunt for MI6.  The conference is a wash, but it's not all a waste of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And They Say That Chivalry is Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3littleowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/gifts), [DemonicSymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/gifts).



> A prequel to Envy! This one's for Owls and Demonic, who cheered me on during writing it. I'm kind of loving writing this crossover ship!

As far as conferences go, this one’s a bust.  So many engineers who can barely manage an entry-level invasive keylogger, much less the level of work that he’s used to accomplishing for fun on a Saturday off, and Q’s had the most incredibly difficult time resisting the urge to play black hat and take over the presenter’s system with his mobile as he nibbles idly on a beigel.  The lox is lovely, at least, and he amuses himself taking tiny mouse bites to let the fish melt on his tongue.  When he glances up, everyone else is watching the projector with expressions of rapt fascination—everyone but one man who looks as terminally bored as Q feels.  Q watches him until he feels Q’s eyes, and then.  And then the man winks.

It’s possibly a stupid idea; Q’s here to headhunt for Six, to find the best and brightest underutilised technological geniuses in the UK and bring them home, but honestly he’d only be tempted to offer anyone he’d recruit here to Double-oh Seven for target practice.  He curls his fingers around the handle of his laptop case and makes an impulsive decision: his steps are smooth and brisk as he heads to the loo to wait.  A quickie against the tiles might be the very thing to wake his mind up again, and if he’s honest, the man’s huge hands are promising.  He loosens his tie and leans his case against the wall where it won’t be damaged.

He waits the first five minutes out of propriety, the next five out of stubborn disbelief, and the last five because he can’t bear the thought of going back to that miserable, boring hell without having been fucked.  Finally he can’t pretend he has a reason to stay, and when he sidles humiliated back into his seat in the conference, his seatmate goggles at him.

“Are you okay?” the man—his boring seatmate, not gorgeous Baldie, who Q is peevishly pretending not to see anymore—asks.

“Had the shits,” Q tells him, tuning him out for yet another fascinating go at Candy Crush on his mobile.  The man turns away, and Q watches from the corner of his eye as he pushes his beigel away on the desk.

He spends lunch deciding whether or not it would be grossly inappropriate to call Mallory and plead with him to leave the conference early, then the last half of the day trying to convince himself that yes, he does honestly care about whether or not Mallory would find it inappropriate.  At the end of the impossibly long day, Baldie looks as though he might approach—galvanised by Q’s accidental eye contact, perhaps—but Q breezes by, close enough to smell the cologne—subtle, woodsy, classic—wafting from his jumper and to hear his low laugh.  He tries to ignore his stomach’s shudder of interest, to resist the urge to look back.  When he gives in, just before rounding the corner toward the lifts, Baldie’s watching him, thin lips pulled into a thoughtful smile.

There’s drinks in the lobby tonight, some kind of welcome function, and Q thoroughly plans to get so drunk he can taste colours, so long as it will black out the memory of hearing someone in the class actually, honestly ask who Alice and Bob were.  He’s three drinks in, gins that glanced at tonic from the end of a long corridor, when he feels someone at his elbow.  Of course it’s Baldie.

“You’ve got a nerve,” Q tells him mildly.

“I like to buy a fellow a drink before I give it to him dirty in the toilets.”  Baldie’s voice is deep and lovely, low and rich and smooth as sugar candy.  Q feels his knees actually wibble.

“Drinks are free,” Q reminds him.

“Then let’s move along, shall we?”

He’ll have to wipe the hall’s security cameras if he remembers in the morning; Baldie presses Q into the wainscotting and kisses him until he moans, then trails his lips along Q’s throat until Q yanks his tie loose and crooked, pulls open his own collar with impatient fingers, and tips his chin to his chest submissively.  Baldie takes the hint—Q’s squirming, pinned to the wall and fit to burst as Baldie uses his teeth—his teeth!  Q might very well keep him for that—to leave a love bite he’s sure is going to be so purple and vivid that his seatmate will be shocked tomorrow.  Q whines, opens his mouth to encourage—Baldie?  He can’t call that in the throes of his passion, can he?

“Wait, wait.  Wait,” Q says.  His hand is cupping the back of Baldie’s head; he has to force himself to let him up, and his skin throbs without that slick hot mouth on it to distract him.  “I don’t know what you’re called.”

“I presume you don’t want to be called ‘Wonder-kid’ probably,” Baldie agrees with a laugh.

“Q.”

“Don’t be rude.  We’ll get there yet.”  

It takes Q a moment to catch on, and when he does, he laughs.  “No, ‘Q’, Quebec.  It’s what I’m called.”

“Merlin,” Baldie offers.

“As in the Crystal Caves?”

“As in magic with my hands.”  

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” Q hums, and his mouth is open when Merlin bites at the swollen kisses on his throat; he can’t hide his groan behind his lips.  Merlin looks triumphant.  “Bleeding vampire.”

Merlin’s laugh is warm, intimate against his ear and so private it barely brushes at Q’s curls.  “You taste so delicious, though.  I can’t help it.”

Q can feel his shiver as Merlin presses him back against the wall, devouring his mouth again.  He’s got thin lips, though Q’s own aren’t especially plush, either, but they make it work as they press kisses, too eager to do much more than mouth at each other and rock against the wall.  Merlin’s hard at Q’s hip and he knows his own cock must be digging into Merlin’s thigh; he bumps his hips up against him and pants when Merlin’s eyes go dark.

“Don’t you worry, my lad.  You’ll have yours tonight.  I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Merlin tugs him away from the wall with a gentle pull, and then they’re making their way toward the lift when Q drags Merlin in close again, takes his hips in hand and guides him until they’re pressed against another patch of wall, Merlin boxing him in with firm, steady arms and an amused smile.  “You feel so big,” Q confesses, breathless, pornstar dialogue so wholeheartedly meant.  Merlin knows just what he means, shoves him into the wood with just enough force to put Q’s teeth on edge, and bites his mouth, pressing his thumb to the center of that pretty bruise that’s already livid on his throat.

“Do I,” Merlin says between kisses.  The next time Q drags them to the wall, he turns away.  Merlin whistles and takes a palmful, swatting playfully until Q’s on his tiptoes, squirming.  “Interesting boy, you are.”  Q’s grin at that is cheeky; he slips from beneath Merlin’s arm and beckons, and when Merlin follows Q shoves him against the lift doors and bites his mouth.

The doors swing open with a soft chime and Q laughs, pressing Merlin in until they’re surrounded by mirrors, dark-haired boys and bald men spinning circles around them as he purrs into the shell of Merlin’s ear and tries to ride his leg.  Merlin stills him, helpfully parts his thighs with one broad hand, and settles him cock-first against his hip; when Q whines against his throat, Merlin laughs deep and rumbling about brats.  His body’s delicious, big and firm and just the right pressure for pushing against, and Q rubs his cock in the hollow of Merlin’s hip for a long, happy moment before he realises Merlin is waiting for him to press the button for his floor.  He leans over, smacking it with his full palm, and Merlin’s brow knits.

“Are you too—?” he starts, and it’s sweet, but no.  No, no.  No, Q’s arse is going to be beautifully sore tomorrow if he can help it at all, and he shakes his head, dragging Merlin down for another kiss.

“I’m not,” he swears breathlessly against those thin lips, until Merlin nods, dips his face to Q’s throat, and sets about sucking purple marks again.  

“I’ll stop if you are,” he warns, and Q grins.

“Do you think you could?”

They’re still necking when the lift reaches Q’s floor and the doors swing open, and.  It hasn’t been enough time, not nearly enough; Q reaches impulsively and presses the top floor and pouts when the button doesn’t light.  Merlin laughs again, presses his key card into the slot, and presses the button again.  “If you’d wanted to come to mine,” he murmurs, scotch whisky voice smooth and oaky, “you could have just said.”

Because of course he has the penthouse suite.  Of course he fucking does, because Q’d tried every which way but actually, legitimately paying for the upgrade to get the room, and it’s just as gorgeous as he’d imagined it to be: wide, clear sheets of window ringing the edges of the room and a dark teak bar tucked in the corner.  Q pulls away from Merlin to help himself to the bottle of liquor that’s been left out.  Merlin chuckles.

“Should have known you only wanted me for my alcohol,” Merlin teases, trailing his lips along the line of Q’s throat as he swallows.

Q grins around the rim of the glass, draining it fully before pausing to shake his hair from his eyes.  “I remember someone telling me he wouldn’t fuck me before buying me a drink.  Considering how much you must be paying for the minibar in a room this luxe—” he trails off, but Merlin’s hand stops him when he reaches to pour another.  “I’m not too drunk,” Q denies peevishly.

“Let’s save it for after, then,” Merlin agrees, and Q lets him sweep him into his arms, lets him duck his mouth down to lip at the curl of an ear and across the line of his jaw before biting, hard, at Merlin’s lip.  Merlin breathes hot and fast, short with pain, until Q releases him to lean back against the bar and watch him dab at the blood with the tip of his tongue.

“Let’s get one thing perfectly clear, Merlin.  I’m not a child,” Q tells him, voice tart.

“Good.”  Merlin’s hands are hot on his hips as he eases Q back in, and Q groans at the feeling of Merlin’s cock beside his own.  They’re both still interested, still aroused as they dance around each other carefully.

“Good,” Q agrees.  “And if I want another drink—”

“I’ll pour it for you,” Merlin offers.  Q stills him with the flat of his palm.

“—I’ll lick it off you,” Q finishes.  Merlin’s eyes go stormy and dark, and Q’s not surprised to find himself pressed into the bar so firmly that his spine curls back and his shoulderblades press into the wooden top.  Merlin’s doing something wicked with his hips, a full rolling motion that makes Q taste a whimper on the edge of his breath each time he rides up.  He lets his thighs fall open further and Merlin’s hand is behind him, protecting the small of his back from the sharp corners of the bar, and then.  And then Merlin’s hand is on the placket of his trousers, is tripping down the zip, is dipping—

“I knew you’d be a wild one,” Merlin tells him.  Q’s brain is spinning on the feeling of Merlin’s nails scratching through his pubic hair in the hot close of his pants; he opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out.  Merlin’s smile is insufferably smug, the wanker.  “God, and pretty, too.  Look at that bird’s nest you’ve got, all tangled up like you’ve been in bed for days.  Like someone’s been petting you—”  Merlin’s other hand has wended its way up, insinuated itself in the knots of curls at the nape of his neck, and he tugs, pulling just hard enough at two patches of dark twists that Q writhes beneath him, mouth wet and wide and panting.

“Should have known you’d be interested in the hair,” Q says, nipping forward at Merlin’s lips until Merlin draws back again, holding Q away.

“No more biting or I’ll have to turn you over my knee,” Merlin tells him sternly, and.  Q wriggles.

“Oh, is that so?”  And for all he’s just scolded Merlin for thinking him a child, it’s easy to make his voice breathy and hot, more air than sound as he brushes the word by his ear: “Daddy?”

Merlin’s hips stutter against Q’s thigh, and the hand inside his pants clenches, knuckles pressing hard at the base of Q’s cock with nowhere else to go.  “God,” Merlin says, and it’s so low, so tortured, that Q’s shivering from it already, even before Merlin takes him in hand, before Merlin strokes him in slow, heavy strokes that leave him gasping for air.

It takes both of his hands and all three of the brain cells he has that aren’t occupied with trying not to come in his pants to shove down his trousers.  Merlin’s hands are huge, the front of his pants distended with the shape of the one he’s using to stroke him off, and Q’s brain misfires as he stares, trying to remember what he was doing.  It isn’t until they’re both watching Merlin work a bead of precome through the grey jersey that Q remembers he was doing something; his shirttails make soft whapping noises around Merlin’s forearm, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“You’ll be sad if you make me come without sucking me first,” Q tells him, as if his knuckles aren’t white with the strain of holding himself up.  He tries for casual, winning even, when Merlin turns disbelieving eyes on him, but he’s sure he only makes it far enough to achieve “hungry”.

“Will I?” Merlin asks.  It’s not fair that he has the calluses of a hand that uses a soldering iron regularly.  Q’s knees wibble and he locks his elbows to keep from falling.

“Oh, I’ve heard I’m delicious.”

He’s not expecting Merlin to draw his hand from within his pants, not expecting him to touch his tongue to the faintly gleaming lines of salt left on his palm, his knuckles.  Merlin hums thoughtfully.  “Well.  Seems that you’re right.”

And Q has to sit down right now—right this very fucking minute—because the lust that sweeps him takes out his kneecaps and he slumps until Merlin catches him, a surprised chuckle caught on the tip of his tongue.  Merlin lifts him easily, places him on the polished cool of the bar counter, and hitches his pants down and over his bum until he’s bare-arsed on the wood with his cock wagging out.  It would be ridiculous, were it not so hot.  Q bites back a yelp when that huge hand is on him again, and Merlin holds him upright, nudging the tail of his shirt aside with his knuckles.  And then he puts his mouth on him.

Q is pretty sure the sound Merlin’s mouth pries out of him isn’t human, but then neither is Merlin’s mouth, so it all comes out in the wash; Merlin sucks cock like he picks up mouthy little shits like Q all the time, and Q can’t even form thoughts to mouth off with, much less the syllables to do it.  The back of his skull makes a hollow thunking sound when it drops back to hit the back of the bar, and rather than concerned, Merlin’s chuckle is amused, pleased.  Some solitary thought whizzes by that Merlin’s got a lot to be pleased with, but it’s lost in the bubbling mess that registers his legs being lifted, his curling toes being held on wide shoulders, his body being bent double as Merlin kisses his way down and back and good fuck, Q wants to keep him.  Fuck Mallory and MI6, he wants to take this man home and—his throat hurts when he opens his mouth to moan and he realises he’s been making sounds this whole time, soft and shuddery and weak as Merlin eats his arse like a man half starved.

“Oh god.”  It’s faint, the words barely tickling at the tip of his tongue.  “Oh, god.”

Merlin breaks for air, and even though he knows exactly what Merlin’s going to say—Merlin merely cocks an eyebrow, and he doesn’t actually have to make the joke for Q to groan, wriggling in his hands—Q curls his fingers around the jug handles of Merlin’s ears and tastes his own musk on Merlin’s mouth, kissing deep and famished.  He could write love sonnets to the way Merlin’s tongue curls around his, fucking into his mouth as it had his arse only moments before.

“Just put your cock in me already, you twat,” Q says instead.  Merlin’s soft huff of laughter is surprised.

“You’re the boss,” Merlin agrees, and then Q is squawking as he’s hefted up and over Merlin’s shoulder and carried over to the bed.  It’s close enough to the window—and Q wonders if anyone below was watching his mostly naked, gangly self being deposited on the bed by Merlin, who’s still wearing all his clothes—that he can feel the chill coming from the glass.  He shivers as Merlin stands back to carefully peel off his jumper, then the shirt underneath.  

Merlin’s well fit.  There’s a strength to him that was softened by the nubbly wool of his jumper, by the creamy cotton of his shirt.  Bared, he’s muscle and sinew and Q aches with the want of him.  It’s enough to leave him as self-conscious as he is aroused, but Merlin turns out one of Q’s knees and kisses it, gentle, whiskery kisses that itch their way from ankle to the fold of skin between thigh and hip.  “Do you know how fucking beautiful you are?” Merlin wonders, and.  Q shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

The lube and the condom have come from somewhere, but whether Merlin had palmed them whilst distracting Q with his mouth or full-out conjured them like a magician, Q finds he doesn’t really care as he’s pressed slowly, inexorably, back into the lush plush of the bedding.  Merlin’s wand certainly is magic, thick enough that the stretch makes him salivate and squirm, just long enough that it apparently grants wishes.  Q’s whining around how good it feels even before he bottoms out, and then Merlin takes his wrists in one hand to hold him down, and oh, that’s all she wrote.  Q’s bucking up for more and Merlin’s rocking down, and when they meet in the middle Q goes dizzy for it.  It takes him an embarrassingly short time to come—Merlin makes a vague gesture toward wanking him off and the thought makes him go cross-eyed; he comes back from the blind white of orgasm to see Merlin staring down at him in amused consternation behind dirty glasses—and he rides it out as Merlin fucks him into the mattress.  

Then he naps and wakes Merlin by crawling on top with legs still trembling from before; Merlin groans and mutters about the only downside of picking up a cute young thing, but he still surges in Q’s palms and encourages him to ride with short, sharp little thrusts that leave Q pleasantly sore after.

He sleeps through the first half of the next day of meetings, then staggers in so obviously well-fucked that his seatmate’s scandalised stares don’t abate even by the catered dinner; Q ducks out early and sucks Merlin in the toilet until he agrees to leave and Q can glut himself on Merlin to his heart’s content.

He makes his pitch—softball, slow and easy, barely more than a mild suggestion—the next morning as Merlin traces idle patterns over his shoulder and back.  Merlin pauses.

“Sorry, I’ve got a job I love very much.  I won’t be leaving it, no matter how lovely your arse is,” Merlin says, and he does sound sorry.  Q hums, tucking his face back into Merlin’s armpit, and wonders about who’s had the good fortune to snap up such obvious talent.  There’s something about the room, about Merlin—from his glasses to his elegantly geekish wardrobe—that tickles at Q’s memory: a secret service, one he’s brushed the edges of—Merlin draws him from his musings with a whuffling kiss to his hair.  “And I don’t sleep with my coworkers, anyway.”

Q pauses, thoughtful.  Weighing the options—“No?” he asks.

Merlin grins.  “No.”

 

 


End file.
